


Infusion

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Beer is Ghastly, Eric Slingby culinary genius, Gen, Grell Is a Troll, Hundred Guineas Club, M/M, Random Reaper OCs, Ruffians - Freeform, Teacher-Student Relationship, UST, Victorian Bros, red wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The repair of a broken teacup; the blooming of tea leaves; the beauty of completion. Or: Alan Humphries gets to know his mentor. <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/1010813">Now available in Russian and translated by the lovely Silent Observer!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this beastly thing fully intending it to be a one shot. However, once it got to the 10,000 words mark, I decided it was time to break it down. This is officially the first multi-chapter I've ever posted. 
> 
> Oh, these two. Killing me with feels AND occupying 99% of my fandom brain. Here we go!
> 
> And as always, thank you to deadcellredux for beta reading...like, 20,000 times at various intervals of completion. <3

Before passing exams, Alan had never been invited to a “lads night out.” In the two years since then, he's found that he suddenly has the opportunity to be more social -- less rules to memorize, more free time. He isn't sure about he feels about free time; it's been a relatively foreign concept up until recently. 

Following his promotion to junior reaper, he's been assigned a mentor -- Eric Slingby -- who, for all his confidence and swagger, hasn't actually been a senior for very long. At least not in comparison to Senior Sutcliff and Spears.

"You know, Alan, darling," Grell Sutcliff interrupts his thought, sidling up next to Alan with a twist of his hips, smiling with those sharp teeth Alan still doesn't know what to make of, "if you're ever interested in some real entertainment, I may just know the type of... _locale_ you’d enjoy."

"Sutcliff," comes Eric's voice, as he walks up to Alan and Grell, "don't frighten the new blood."

Alan is sitting at the rough wooden table, his back rigid and straight, an untouched pint in front of him. Grell, on the other hand, is loosely and almost lewdly draped over a chair with a glass of white wine in one hand, his other still gloved.

"Oh, Eric, don't be so suspicious. You know I'm all sweetness and light, my dear," Grell says, looking at Eric lazily, the same way a cat does before it pounces -- relaxed, fluid, and full of deadly potential.

Eric just gives a disbelieving _hmph_ , and when Grell adds, "You dastardly handsome man, Eric," he shoves his hands into his pockets and raises an eyebrow.

"You'll never quit, Sutcliff," he replies, but his eyes are on Alan, studying his reactions to their conversation.

"Not a chance, my darling," he retorts immediately, pulling out the empty chair and taking a seat. "But you’re no gentleman, I must say, with that _terrible_ hairstyle you refuse to change and most of all, not offering a seat for a lady who's been made to stand."

"I'm sorry," Alan blurts out, his face reddening suddenly.

Eric and Grell both turn to look at him in surprise as their bantering conversation is interrupted.

"What ever for?" Grell asks, taking a sip from his glass, watching Eric watch Alan, a small almost indiscernible smirk on his face, though he looks genuinely curious about Alan's comment as well.

"I should have gotten up to assist," Alan says, staring at his glass. "Seeing as how...you're a lady...and my senior."

"Sutcliff is not a lady," Eric says in a flat voice.

"Eric Slingby, how dare you!" Grell shrieks. "What an absolutely terrible thing to say!"

Eric actually does look contrite for a moment, and then takes a step back before saying, "I didn't mean--"

"It isn't as if you have good taste in women to begin with," Grell interjects, his voice completely back to normal. "In fact, I'm quite relieved you don't view me as a lady, as your definition leaves something to be desired."

Eric's face reddens.

"And Alan dear," Grell says, turning his gaze back to Alan, "I do prefer you leave your ranks at the door. There are many things you may leave at the door in fact," Grell says, giving a lecherous smile and draining his glass, "such as your clothes, your inhibitions, and your--"

"Sutcliff, _don't_ terrify the new blood! It's hard enough finding another lad to come out for nights like these," Eric says, crossing his arms. But then he grins and fixes Grell with a look. "Besides, you're a lady. You're not even supposed to be on 'lads night out.'"

"Oh honey, _please_ ," Grell says, standing up and stretching with a luxurious motion, his red hair vivid against the black frock coat. "You couldn't even begin to understand what I am, and what a shame."

He gives a disapproving, albeit amicable, shake of his head and looks at Eric's hair.

" _Honestly_ ," he says, staring sadly at the braids, and then turns to Alan. "And Alan, do think about what I said, my darling. The living world is absolutely ghastly, but does offer some pleasures."

And with that, the enigma that is Grell Sutcliff walks away as Eric sits down, and Alan faces him with a hesitant look.

"Loosen up, Humphries," he says gruffly, looking at his glass. "There's plenty of entertainment to be had. And don't listen to Sutcliff... What did he tell you anyway?"

"Well," Alan says, trying to follow Eric's advice and taking a sip of his drink, "he said something about...a 'locale' and 'type of entertainment' I might enjoy."

Eric does a double take at Alan, who looks somewhat baffled; a moment of silence follows, and then he laughs. It's a warm sound, and Alan offers up a small smile and loosens his bolo tie slightly.

"He really doesn't ever quit," Eric says, shaking his head and draining his pint glass.

Their conversation is interrupted suddenly just as Alan is about to reply by the rowdy voices of two other senior reapers.

“Slingby!” one of them says, hand clutched around a pint and tie loosened. “What are you doin’, mate? Don’t you have a bit of bird to fill by evening’s end? That girl from General, eh?”

Alan doesn’t even try to stop the blush from creeping up his cheeks as he drops his eyes to his glass again; Eric just rolls his eyes, but offers Alan a friendly smile before getting up.

“Don’t let Sutcliff scare you,” he says, emptying his glass in one gulp and plunking it down on the wooden table. “He may be a bit mad, but he’s not an entirely bad sort.”

With that, Eric turns away and Alan just stares at the empty glass, feeling a bit lost in the sea of other reapers that all seem to know each other, are attuned to intuitive social graces...and then him, the recent graduate, only known at this point for his triple A average, even after two years...

_“So you’re the one who’s intended to bring a bit of shine to our humble division?” Eric asks, raising a critical eyebrow and crossing his arms. “Bit of light in the dark, mate?”_

_“I was assigned here as per my examiners,” Alan says, standing up very straight and wrapping a calm hand around his scythe. “And you are my mentor. I’m pleased to meet you, and will try my very best to absorb your instruction, Senior Slingby.”_

_Eric holds up a hand with a grimace, the other one clutching his head._

_“First of all... Humphries is it?”_

_“Yes, Senior--”_

_“Don’t_ call _me that. It’s Eric, and only Eric. Got it?”_

_Alan gives a puzzled expression, taken aback, before he replies, “I … ‘have’ it... Eric.”_

_“Secondly,” Eric adds, dropping his hand when Alan doesn’t offer up any other painful formalities, “the first thing I’m going to teach you is about the pub we frequent. The pub is important. I’m also going to teach you about General, and its perks.”_

_Alan’s eyes are rather wide now, and Eric smiles at him._

_“And then,” he says, “you can show me how good you really are at using a scythe.”_

_Alan lets a smile slip before he can help it, and Eric’s smile widens as he claps Alan on the shoulder._

_“Just relax, Humphries.”_

“Slingby!” comes the loud, drunk voice again. “If you don’t go chasin’ after that tail right now, then I will!”

Eric is out the door with his raucous companions, and then Grell appears again to settle delicately in the chair across from Alan.

“ _Ruffians_ ,” is all he says, sipping from a new glass. “My William may be a bit dull, but I will say that at least he’s a proper gentleman.”

Alan has been warned not to talk to Grell Sutcliff about William T. Spears, or vice versa, so he just busies himself by taking a rather _long_ sip of his nearly full beer.

“What ever are you _drinking_?” Grell exclaims in a horrified voice, as if seeing Alan’s glass for the first time. Then he lets loose a rather calculated smile. “Shall I guess, then? Dear Eric ordered it on your behalf?”

Alan would rather not blush in front of Grell. Grell, at times, might be mistaken for a predator; but he’s not so much a predator as a creature of pure intuition, instinct and desire, with absolutely no regard for common sense. But Alan feels lucky when Grell’s response is a benign, _tsk_ , and there’s no further commentary on Eric.

“I’ll fetch you something more suitable,” Grell says, standing. As he goes, he takes Eric’s empty glass with him, and something twists in Alan’s chest.

He feels very alone suddenly; though he has to admit, Grell isn’t as bad as he’s made out to be by some of the other junior reapers. This also might be because most of them are terrified of him.

So when Grell returns to the table with a glass of red wine for Alan -- he’s correct in his guess about Alan’s taste -- Alan finally relaxes.

“Now,” Grell says, sitting across from Alan primly and adjusting his glasses, “in regard to what I was saying before, darling...”

Alan swirls the wine in his glass idly and watches it move, trying not to tense his jaw in trepidation.

“Yes?” he finally asks, looking up to meet Grell’s eyes.

“If I’m not mistaken, dove,” Grell says, keeping a careful eye on Alan, “you don’t have many hobbies. One of my least favorites, personally, is bird watching.”

That catches Alan off guard and he frowns in confusion. “Well, I... I suppose I should develop some?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and looking at Grell strangely. “I only recently graduated and am still acclimating myself to--”

“Darling, you’re missing the point.”

Grell just stares at Alan for a moment with a look on his face that says he’s clearly considering whether Alan actually is a dolt, until Alan blushes rather substantially.

“It’s relatively obvious I think,” Grell says, primping his hair luxuriantly, “that I prefer a good _cock_ fight...oh, so manly!” He he presses both hands to his heart and shivers. “Terrible really, but the _blood_ and the--”

“You're correct," Alan interrupts flatly.

“Very good,” Grell says, clapping his carefully manicured hands together with a delighted smile. “But poor dear Eric...” he adds, shaking his head.

“What?” Alan asks with a concerned expression.

“I think he was holding out for another... ugh, how does he put it?” Grell says, rolling his eyes in distaste with a flippant wave of his hand. “Another ‘ _lad_ ’? Another layabout ruffian not interested in any of the _true_ ladies in the division!”

Grell has demonstrated unexpected insight on many occasions; but on this one, he's not entirely correct in his assumption about Eric.

_The infamous pub is in the living world to Alan’s surprise; but Eric explains to him that although they generally stay on their own plane for entertainment, it’s akin to taking a bit of naughty vacation, and most of them find it amusing...grim reapers drinking alongside unwitting human flesh that will eventually die._

_Alan has nightmares about the dark joke -- that everyone around them in the pub, laughing and singing and often fighting, will die, and their souls will be ripped out by a scythe -- but he doesn’t tell anyone._

_“That one’s a looker, eh?” Eric says, sitting with Alan at the bar. He’s pointing to a blonde woman who just that morning had given Alan a rather charming smile as she had given them their scythes._

_“She was giving you quite the eye this morning.” Eric nudges Alan’s shoulder, and Alan tries not to pay attention to the fact that Eric is touching him._

_“She’s...fit,” he says awkwardly._

_Eric looks over and then turns to face him; there’s something in his face that Alan finds unsettling._

_“What’s the matter?” he asks._

_The look is unsettling because it’s kind._

_“I...” Alan looks down at his lap, embarrassed. Alan wants to be, what_ Eric _wants him to be; he’s his mentor after all, and currently, his only friend. “I don’t...”_

_“Oh, I see,” Eric says, understanding finally dawning on his face._

_It’s not terribly uncommon for male reapers to prefer other men, and such a preference doesn’t carry the same stigma it does in the living world -- the penalty being execution -- but to admit it to someone like Eric, who seems to be the antithesis of such preferences based on his reputation for swimming around the General Affairs staff as if it’s a lake..._

_“Well then, I suppose that’s more for me then!” Eric says, laughing. “No need to be embarrassed.”_

_Alan looks up in surprise. He’s used to being isolated, to hiding, to being alone...usually not for this reason, but for many others._

_And Eric just accepts him for what he is, not caring that they’re so very different._

_“I suppose so,” he finally manages._

_When Eric goes to chat up the blonde he had pointed out though, Alan feels more alone than he has in a very long time._

“Well, I suppose some proper... ‘lad’ … will come along one day,” Alan says, shrugging a bit. His wine is almost gone, and Grell looks at him with a lazy smile.

“Alan, dear,” he says, “you are too rational. You need a bit of the devil in you.”

Alan’s eyes widen at the word “devil," since it's not solely a figure of speech in their world.

“Honestly darling, have you ever tried one? They’re delightful if _used_ in the right way and then disposed of afterwards. Of course, you must have more than one scythe available, and in order to hide the extra one properly you--”

Alan coughs rather loudly and several people look at them.

“Well,” Grell sniffs, primping his hair, “I suppose it’s not for everyone.”

The smile returns after a moment though, when Grell notices that Alan’s wine is almost gone.

“Now,” he says, “forget all of that nonsense about lads and birds and silly, buffoonish behavior. I have somewhere I think you’ll enjoy far more.”

Alan’s eyebrows raise and Grell doesn’t let him protest.

“Let us leave this filthy establishment, and join the finer ranks of living society, my darling Alan.”

To his own surprise, Alan finds himself agreeing.


	2. Chapter 2

Their mysterious destination is an old, dark building with a dim, drafty hallway that Grell and Alan step into. There are with a few rooms flanking either side, and Alan finds himself learning in short order how to tie a corset and assemble a rather elaborate ensemble consisting of an evening dress, corset, petticoat and chemise.

“Thank you Alan, darling,” Grell says, coiling his hair on top of his head. “I prefer to venture out already properly dressed for nights such as these," he says, pinning his hair into place, "but of course, one must pay some mind to practicality while in such a terribly crude establishment as that _pub_ of which all our uncultured co-workers are so fond.

“Now take my arm,” he says, holding out his arm. Alan takes it without question, and Grell leads him up a set of rickety stairs to open a door, and then a bustling, surprisingly sumptuous scene unfolds.

There is gentle candlelight, soft music, elegant furniture, and a plentiful supply of alcohol circulating. Everyone is dressed in fine clothes -- both male and female attire, though everyone here is male.

Grell is the center of attention, wearing a rather elaborate evening gown, his hair curled on top of his head. If Alan didn't know who he was, he would assume he was a woman. Then again, perhaps he's incorrect in thinking Grell was even a "he" to begin with.

He doesn't particularly mind either way; above all else, Grell is his senior, regardless of whether Alan's leaving "ranks at the door."

Grell immediately points Alan in the direction of the champagne, says a quick, "Go, darling. Explore. There's much treasure to be had," and then flits off somewhere else.

Alan drifts in and out of the crowd; there's the sounds of tinkling conversation, the rustle of fabric, and quite a few handsome faces.

Although Grell was right -- Alan isn't fond of bird watching -- he's also never quite been fond of watching at all, of drawing attention to himself. He's used to being quiet, of being introverted; not because he's actually particularly timid, but because he doesn't want anyone to know what lives inside of him, inside his head -- empathy, fear, sorrow. 

Alan views himself as the antithesis of a death god.

There are men that do look at him though, survey his face and then rove right up and down his body, and Alan can't say he finds it an unpleasant feeling to be admired for what lives only on the surface. Here, he's just another man, out for a night of pleasure.

Yet he still can't seem to really meet anyone's eyes, and ends up in a corner, trying not to appear nervous, and wishing the shadows would just swallow him completely. Grell finds him in due time though.

"Alan, dear," Grell says, drawing close and fluttering a set of false eyelashes, "are you having a good time?"

Alan clears his throat awkwardly and looks at the floor. "Yes, thank you, Sen-- Grell."

Grell laughs softly, and Alan blanches as a delicate finger comes up to trace his jaw, though drops just as quickly.

"You're a sweet boy," Grell says, though there's something about the way it's put that isn't unkind. "And I must say, although you're quite handsome, which of course is a prerequisite to associate with me, you're far more interesting than any of the recent doltish graduates we've been saddled with."

Alan's eyes widen at the statement.

"Well, of course, dear. Have you _seen_ those terrible layabouts they've tried to pass off on us?"

Alan has indeed seen the terrible layabouts; they _are_ layabouts, and probably won't last long in Collections. And although Alan’s not a layabout himself, the flaw he possesses is far worse.

"You're a rather sentimental sort, aren't you?" Grell guesses, smiling subtly and draining the glass of champagne. "I haven't seen Eric this taken with someone since--"

"Thank you for inviting me," Alan interjects awkwardly, taking the first sip of his drink since they had arrived. He thought it very inappropriate to drink in front of his senior, even if Grell didn't exactly meet the same criteria as...basically everyone else he's met in the London Dispatch division, but it might be time for an exception.

"Eric was my trainee, you know," Grell proclaims, reaching out and seizing another glass of champagne from a tray floating by. "He's quite handsome, as I'm sure you'd agree, but he's refused to get rid of that terrible hairstyle for the last two decades. What a shame."

Alan wants to say he's rather fond of that hairstyle; although, he realizes, it's not the hairstyle so much as Eric of whom he's fond. That's an acceptable sentiment to hold; Eric is his mentor, after all.

"Perhaps you can change his mind," Grell says, smiling widely and leaning in to say directly into Alan's ear, "since, after all, he listens to you, darling. And Eric doesn't listen to anyone, really."

"I..." Alan says, at a loss for words. His face is heating, and he sets down the drink.

Grell observes him for a moment, the sly expression gone, and then smiles with less teeth.

"Oh, really, Alan. It's lovely. The fact that you two _actually_ are this way. In fact, it's akin to watching a play, fully engrossing!"

"I'm not..."

"Now," Grell says, abruptly dropping the topic and interrupting, "do come meet this gentleman. He enjoys handsome, younger men. You'll like him."

Alan gives up trying to make sense of his situation right then -- most do in Grell's company -- and turns to the (admittedly) handsome man to whom Grell provides him an introduction.

"Hello," he says awkwardly, holding out his hand. "I'm...Alan."

The man is indeed older than him, but not frightfully so, and he smiles in a way that is actually somewhat inviting.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance," he says. He accepts Alan's hand, and instead of shaking it, kisses the back of it.

"I beg your pardon," Alan utters despite himself, pulling his hand back in surprise, "I..."

"Oh, I see," the man says. "I apologize. I was under the impression that..."

Alan stiffens, but keeps his composure. "Yes, well," he starts, "I'm afraid that..."

"You're very fetching," the man says bluntly. "I mean no harm, but I'd like to make that sentiment clear."

"Well..." Alan says, searching for words, "thank you." He raises his eyebrows, and the man actually smiles at him.

"Your presence here isn't your own doing?" he guesses, then turns around to look at Grell, who offers them a friendly wave of a gloved hand from across the sea of people.

He turns back to Alan, shaking his head.

"I don't know what Mr...Miss...Sutcliff is, but..."

Alan is expecting an insult, and stiffens as he prepares to defend his senior.

"Well..." the man continues, "regardless, I would attach the word _entrancing_ to it."

Alan raises his eyebrows despite himself.

"That hair," the man continues, obviously enamored, "and that skin, the way he...she... moves and..."

Alan is staring over the man's shoulder at Grell now with a raised eyebrow; Grell looks from Alan to his companion and then back to Alan, and then huffs with an exasperated sigh.

Grell returns to their sides, the charming smile edged with a hint of annoyance, and pulls Alan away with a polite excuse.

"I am aware that I am intoxicating," comes the exasperated grumble, "however, I'm sorry to have saddled you with such a bore, Alan. Let me find you someone better."

"Oh, that's quite..."

"Or," and all of Grell's attention is completely centered on Alan now, "you and I could go back to our own divine plane and--"

"Senior," Alan breathes, and Grell frowns.

"I'm sorry," Alan says immediately, "I know you prefer--"

"Alan, darling," Grell says, leaning forward to kiss Alan on the cheek, "I was only partially serious. Not that I would decline such an invitation my dear, however, there are larger things at stake here."

"Things?" Alan squeaks out.

"Yes, darling," Grell replies, pulling back to look at Alan. "Such as finding you a proper gentleman, and not boorish imposters who are fiending after what they will never possess." There's a huff and an outraged primping of red curls. "Honestly, how very distasteful. I thought you might like him, but he's certainly not my type. And now that I am painfully aware of his lack of manners, I shan't introduce him to any handsome, eligible men ever again."

"I don't know if I have a type," Alan says softly, not looking at Grell.

"Well, of course you have a type, my lovely Alan!" Grell exclaims. "With this face, you must have a type! Or if you don't, you are someone else's type!"

"How do you know what your... 'type' is?" Alan asks, meeting Grell's eyes.

There's a very quick moment, when Grell loses all of the bravado and an earnest, almost yearning expression replaces it.

"You simply do, my dear," Grell says in a soft voice. "Of course, what 'type' you're looking for varies... what you're looking for at all."

"What am I intended to be looking for?" Alan asks.

Grell turns and looks at the floor for a moment, adjusting the dress absently; there's a subtle smile, a short silence, and the sober expression vanishes.

Then it's all lighthearted banter again, as Grell responds, "Oh really, dear, you think far too much. Have another glass of bubbly."

As the night wears on, Alan follows the second part of Grell’s advice and has several more glasses of "bubbly;" then he does the exact opposite with the rest. He starts to _think_ again, the warm haze of alcohol enveloping him in a welcoming embrace, and decides that this is, in fact, the perfect situation for him, all things said and done.

He concludes by his fourth glass of champagne that he should have been born a human being. That would make so much more sense, and he begins to suspect that he got cheated out of the form he was supposed to have taken. A human form, full of fears, regrets, sentiment, emotions, but most importantly, compassion.

And it occurs to him, right then, that he is in a room surrounded by humans, all looking for their own form of companionship, of comfort, of pleasure. Whether it's corporeal or sentiment, a combination of the two, or anything in between... Alan begins to think that he is more in place here than on his own plane, with his own kind.

He approaches the gentleman (though Grell called him a few other choice names in the interim) he'd been speaking to before and smiles.

"I apologize for any rudeness," he says, "Grell is an associate of mine."

"Oh, I see," the man says, though he seems to have taken to Alan's new demeanor. Apparently the champagne has gone to his head too, because he gets closer than any person ever should in polite company, and breathes into Alan's ear, "You're lovely."

Alan waits for the feeling to bloom in him; waits for the rush of joy, of pleasure, of relief from feeling wrong all the time.

It doesn't come. All he feels are hands at his waist, pulling him into a dark hallway, a pair of lips against his neck, and something dropping in his stomach.

And all he can think of at that moment is Eric. Where is Eric to help him and guide him, where is Eric to laugh at this ridiculous situation, where is Eric to grab him away and--

"I can't," he shudders as the man moves toward his lips. "I apologize."

And without further explanation, he turns away and careens down the stairs. He doesn't even know if they lead to an exit, but he doesn't care right now. He simply needs to get away, out into the isolated street, where there is no one except him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [The Hundred Guineas Club](http://www.lgbthistoryuk.org/wiki/index.php?title=Hundred_Guineas_Club) is an actual establishment that existed in the late 19th century in London. It entered my head canon originally as part of the MASSIVE 70,000+ word Grelliam fic I'm writing, and now it's snuck into everything that includes Grell GOING OUT ON THE TOWN. Of course, my version isn't 100% historically accurate, but for the purposes of the story, I took the facts I wanted, and the rest is fiction.


	3. Chapter 3

It's snowing, and he finds himself walking faster and faster until he's almost running, watching the shop fronts that he passes, his face faintly reflected on the dark, wet glass. It would be simple to return to his own plane, but even there, he has found nothing except solitude.

_“They’re beautiful in a terrible type of way,” Alan says, looking down at the flower bed and feeling tears stinging his eyes. He hopes Eric doesn’t see; but like most things, he does._

_“Alan, pull yourself together,” he says reprovingly._

_“I’m sorry,” Alan says, though his voice is level. “It’s just that...the dead was very young this time. I could warn him, we could--”_

_Eric shakes his head. “Best not to think of it that way,” he says. “We do what we must.”_

_Alan doesn’t say anything for a moment, knowing he’s going to have to use his scythe for the first time to reap an actual human being. He’s only done it once before with an examination sickle, and that was bad enough._

_“These are Erica flowers,” he says, almost amused for a moment by the fact that they almost share the same name as his mentor._

_“Erica flowers?” Eric asks, raising an eyebrow._

_“Yes,” Alan says softly, smiling a bit, “in the language of flowers, they mean solitude. Some of us...” he tries not to let his voice give away his thoughts, “...will always be like an Erica. Alone, growing up from the dirt.”_

_“Don’t think of things like that,” Eric replies brusquely, and Alan looks down dejectedly. They remain in silence for a moment, but then Eric turns to look at him. “I mean, don’t...think of things_ that _way. Just because one flower is alone, look at all these other flowers around it, blooming so splendidly.”_

_Alan had completed the reap, and then they had sat together quietly, watching the flowers blow in the wind._

_The petals had looked like swirls of snow, and after a few moments, Eric had looked over at Alan and smiled at the dreamlike scene._

As he walks, Alan thinks that after this evening, perhaps it’s better to just accept solitude; but right now he's too cold, too raw, too _feeling_ to talk any sense into himself. He's on the edge of breaking into a free sprint, just to _move._

"Alan!"

Unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the frigid air, and he spins around sharply. When he looks up, he’s mortified to see Eric standing there.

Eric hurries toward him, out of breath himself; unexpectedly, he clutches Alan's shoulder with a worried look on his face.

"Alan, what happened? Are you--"

Alan shrugs his hand off, his face serious and staring at the ground, angry almost.

"Nothing," he says, taking a step back and wrapping his arms around himself.

"I was just on my way back to the pub since I lost track of the others," he says, raising his eyebrows. Then suddenly he frowns. "Is this Sutcliff's fault? I swear, lady or not..."

"No," Alan says quietly. "Grell doesn't even know I'm gone."

Alan can feel Eric staring at him; he knows he's always been terrible at hiding his feelings. And even though he's a rather serious type -- serious about his job, about his colleagues, about his responsibilities -- all of it confuses him to no end.

"What is it?" Eric asks.

Alan looks up to meet his eyes.

This is his mentor...no, this is _Eric_ \-- loud, cocky, intimidating, but not unfeeling. More feeling than most others that Alan has met, and certainly more than anyone he's ever become..."close" with, if it can be called that.

"You have that look," Eric says suddenly.

"What look?" Alan asks quietly, dropping his gaze again to look down at the slowly accumulating snow.

"That look that says you're..." Eric searches for the word, and he gestures awkwardly with his hand, as if trying to jog his memory. "You know...that word that means..."

Alan just stares at him for a moment; Eric looks absolutely perturbed now, his face a portrait of exasperation due to the lost word.

Laughter echoes around the street, soft but very present, and Eric looks up in surprise.

"I don't know if there is a word for it," Alan says, and his face has gotten softer, less reserved and anxious. "Whether or not you can remember it."

Eric grins at him, shakes his finger as he says, "Oh, I'll remember it. You mark my words, Humphries."

They look at each other for a moment, and it's suddenly so quiet. The snow falls, and Alan almost feels like he can hear each flake hitting the one before it, multitudes of crashing snowflakes all around them, a cacophony to which he tries to listen to drown out the other sound in his ears: the sound of Eric breathing in the cold, the sight of white breath.

And then he can't hear anything, because Eric's arms are around him, and he's warm; and his arms go around Eric, and they press against each other.

"I don't know what happened," Eric says quietly, and rests his chin against the top of Alan's head, "but if you ever want to tell me..."

Alan doesn't reply, but he doesn't let go; neither does Eric.

They stand like that for minutes, not moving, breathing lightly as if afraid one might frighten the other away like a startled deer into a thicket of snow.

"Would you like to come back with me?" Eric asks finally, and they part.

Alan looks at him, trying to keep a neutral expression, discern the meaning of the words if there is any.

But Eric doesn't usually mean anything more than what he says; Eric is a "take it at face value" type of bloke, a sensible disposition, an uncomplicated worldview.

"I thought you had a... 'bit of bird to fill,'" Alan paraphrases awkwardly, a small smile on his face, and now Eric laughs.

"Nothing that can't wait," he says, shrugging. "Come on then, let's get back to our own plane and get you a proper cup of tea. It's cold, and bloody hell, but Sutcliff is right about one thing...the living world is often filthy."

Alan just smiles faintly and nods. "Very well, then," he says.

They end up at Eric's place. Alan has been here a number of times -- it's plain, everything in neutral colors and simple, as if Eric hasn't put much thought or effort into it.

Alan sits down on the edge settee, tense even though he's familiar with Eric's flat. It's not snowing here, not in their world, but Alan is still chilled.

Eric has hung his coat up on a hook near the door and disappeared into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Alan stares at the bare walls; there's something very blank here, something that's empty even for a reaper. They're so similar to humans that often, worldly pleasures do attract their kind -- fine furnishings, an attractive space in which to live, the comforts of "home."

But Eric has few worldly comforts; that much is obvious.

The conversation comes back to Alan now, about the Erica flowers, how it is better to not think about the end of a life as a life, but rather as a job. That humans are simply an occupation; that stories matter little.

For someone that sees as much death as they do, it's almost easy to take that route: to simply see each reap as another job completed, another stamp on the form, another cinematic record like so many others.

Alan wishes he felt that way; he really does. He knows Eric does, and on some level he wants to strive to be like his mentor, to act the way he should, to feel the way he should. And as excellent as Alan is at following rules, he fails in this regard.

He also fails to see Eric's flat as anything except lonely. Some might call it simple, or practical, or to be expected -- it's not as if reapers have much spare time -- and yet, Alan can't shake the feeling of coldness even now.

"Alan," comes a voice, the sound that erases the large empty space that Alan has been sitting, so stifling after a few minutes that it feels like a vacuum. "One sugar, am I right?"

"Yes," he replies, adjusting his tie. "Thank you."

Eric re-enters the room with a teacup; it's surprisingly ornate and painted with tiny flowers. He sees Alan do a double take, even though he doesn't comment, and accept the cup.

"It was a gift," he says, shaking his head and laughing low under his breath. "Grell unloaded it on Spears with some ridiculous sentiment, and Spears asked me if I needed a cup."

"He rejected Grell's gift?" Alan says, raising his eyebrows and blowing on the tea.

Eric sits down across from him in a convenient chair and crosses his legs. He slips his tie off and tosses it casually onto a side table.

"Spears and Sutcliff...have their own way of doing things. But I wasn't going to pass up a perfectly good teacup when I'm constantly dropping the ones I have."

"Oh," Alan says, looking at the cup as he takes his first sip. The fine bone porcelain is decorated with tiny, delicate roses painted around the scalloped edges; something about it makes him feel sad. "That's...sad."

"Sad?" Eric asks, raising an eyebrow in consternation. "It's just a cup, Alan."

"I suppose," Alan says, raising his eyes from where he's been studying the design and taking another sip. "But...to reject a gift in such a manner is...well..."

"Cruel, you might say?" Eric finishes for him. 

"I don't intend to be insubordinate," Alan says, dropping his eyes again, "but yes. Something like that."

Eric shrugs, as if he agrees but has never said it out loud. "Well, yes...that's Spears for you. Why Sutcliff has pestered him for this long is beyond me."

Alan just nods and takes another sip of his tea; its fragrance and warmth put him a bit more at ease.

"Did Sutcliff at least show you a decent time?" Eric asks, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt and stretching with a yawn. He asks the question as if an afterthought; as if it's just something one person asks another after a night out, but Alan can see the attentive look on his face.

"Yes," Alan says simply, "you might say so."

"Where did he take you?"

"I'd rather not discuss it."

Eric raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I see. Does it have something to do with..."

"I should be going," Alan says abruptly, standing up rigidly and putting the empty cup down on the table. "Thank you for the tea, Eric."

"Alan, I didn't..." Eric is staring at him as if he wants to apologize, but doesn't know what he said wrong in the first place. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor, frowning. "Very well then."

"It makes me sad," Alan says abruptly, turning to look at Eric. "That cup. It makes me..."

"The cup?" Eric says, confused now.

"Many things...hurt," Alan admits, his face reddening, not meeting Eric's eyes. "It's undignified, I know...but..."

Eric sighs; he runs a hand through his hair and then looks at Alan.

"That's not wise," he replies, shaking his head.

"I have no control over it," Alan says. "And occasionally, I even feel pain in my chest. I don't know what it's from...sometimes I think that I'm in the wrong profession."

"This is the _only_ profession," Eric says, and now there's an anxious look on his face. He raises his eyebrows, and it's desperate, pleading, as if he wants Alan to take back the words. "We don't exactly have a choice."

"I suppose not," Alan says with a small shrug. "I'm simply being honest."

He expects Eric to rebuke him, to teach him a lesson as his mentor, to talk some sense into him.

Instead, Eric just says, "No one can blame you for that."

And the entire evening comes to a head; everything that Alan has been holding back, everything that has happened, Eric's arms around him, Grell's rejected, beautiful gift. He doesn't weep, but he stiffens and shakes his head.

"Yes, well, as I said, I really must be going."

"You don't look well, Alan," Eric says abruptly.

"I..." Alan wants to deny it, say he feels fine, but Eric is right. Eric is usually right.

"You don't look well at all," Eric repeats, and some of the tension dissolves. "I know we're divine, Humphries, but we certainly aren't immune to everything."

Alan shifts his posture and straightens his shirt self-consciously. "I suppose," he says. "What do you propose then?"

"Stay here," Eric says with an easy shrug. "The settee is quite comfortable, and you'd be in good company of course."

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly as he says it, and Alan can't help but smile back.

"I suppose so," he agrees. "Thank you, Eric. I appreciate it."

"No worries," Eric says, grinning now. There's something about the way Eric fills up the room: tall, with broad shoulders; his smile, unapologetic and genuine.

Eric nods in agreement, and bends to pick up the cup carefully from the table.

"I've tried not to drop it," he confesses. "It doesn't make me feel the same, but I..."

Alan nods. "I understand," he says simply.

Eric pauses, the cup in his hand, and then turns and walks back into the kitchen.

The settee _is_ rather comfortable, and Alan is tired after tonight. He lies down and stretches out, still wearing his shirt, tie and trousers. It's cushy and inviting, and once he relaxes, he realizes what a toll the evening has taken on him. He undoes the bolo tie after a moment and places it carefully on the table in front of the settee.

"You can't sleep like that," Eric says, re-emerging and ever hospitable. "Let me give you something to wear."

Alan is glad that Eric walks out of the room to retrieve "something to wear,' because his face is heating. The idea of wearing one of Eric's nightshirts somehow makes him feel simultaneously uncomfortable and eager.

"Here you are," Eric says, setting a striped nightshirt on the armrest next to Alan.

"Oh, that's not necessary," Alan says, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his own shirt. "But thank you all the same."

"Very well," Eric replies. And then all is quiet as Eric leaves, extinguishes the light, and closes his bedroom door with a soft click.

Alan gives a quick look around, as if someone else might be in Eric's flat, and then undoes his shirt, shrugs it off, and pulls on the nightshirt despite his words. It smells like Eric.

He settles down on the settee, closing his eyes, and sleep is all too close. He turns onto his side and curls into the upholstery as he drifts off.

He dreams of roses, of porcelain and paint, and then of thorny vines wrapping around the flowers, encroaching upon the cup and crushing it.

When he wakes again, at first he think it's morning, that they have an early reap. But then he realizes that it's just very late, and very dark, and Eric is standing over him suddenly.

"What is it?" Eric asks softly.

"What?" Alan murmurs sleepily, sitting up slightly. "What's wrong?"

"You were mumbling," Eric says.

Alan's eyes focus finally, and he can make out that Eric's hair is rumpled, he's not wearing a shirt, and his trousers are striped -- the matching piece to the shirt that Alan is wearing.

"I'm sorry," Alan answers, looking down. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Alan," Eric says quietly, "would you prefer to sleep in a real bed?"

"I couldn't possibly ask for such a thing," Alan replies, blanching.

There's a moment of stillness, as Eric looks down at Alan; Alan knows the blush on his face is obvious even in the dimness of the room.

Alan also doesn't want to misinterpret the meaning of the offer, and he sits up slowly to look at Eric.

"I couldn't sleep if I knew you were inconvenienced to the point of giving up your bed," he says, choosing his words carefully.

Eric knows what he's doing, the inherent question there, the unsure footing; because they both know there's something here, something that goes beyond simple friendship or mentorship. It's indefinable, yet its presence is as plain as day.

"I meant with me," Eric says bluntly after a moment.

Alan realizes right then that he wouldn't expect anything less from Eric -- the frankness, the honesty. Eric, for all of his complexities, is not ambivalent in statements he does actually make. In fact, Alan realizes (and perhaps this is part of the reason this unnamable thing exists between them), Eric is not so much coldly decisive, as he is sincere.

"Would you..." Alan fights to get the words out. "Would you prefer that?"

Eric sighs and looks down at the ground; he's also not immune to confusion.

"I don't know," he replies. "But it's better than hearing you mumble in that frightened voice."

"I sounded frightened?" Alan asks, his eyes widening. He can't recall exactly what he had been dreaming about, but somewhere in the back of his mind, something unpleasant churns just for a moment, so he lets it go.

"Yes," Eric confirms. "I couldn't listen to it anymore."

"I'm sorry for the noise," Alan says, frowning faintly.

"It wasn't because of the noise that I couldn't listen anymore," Eric says simply.

They just stare at each other for a moment, until Alan rises hesitantly to his feet. He bunches the nightshirt he's wearing around his body more tightly, as if to protect himself, and looks at the floor.

"Come on then," Eric says gruffly, walking away and bidding Alan to follow him.

Alan has never been in Eric's bedroom before. It has the same basic decor as the rest of his flat -- as in none at all -- though it feels a bit more lived in, with the rumpled sheets and closet full of Eric's clothes, some of them spilling out.

Alan's own bedroom is rather plain too, but everything in his closet is immaculate -- pressed trousers, starched shirts, neatly hung jackets.

"I swear, there's nothing exciting in there," Eric says as he sees Alan staring at the closet, and now his voice is slightly amused. The warmth there makes Alan relax, at least a little.

"I’m sorry," he replies, "I didn't intend to be nosy."

"I bet your closet doesn't look like that," Eric says, snorting.

Alan feels a small smile, but a smile nonetheless, creep across his face.

"No, it doesn't," he confirms.

"Alright," Eric says after a minute, clearing his throat, "let's get to bed then. We've got an early start tomorrow with that reap in Southwark."

"Right," Alan says lamely, and looks at the bed. Thankfully, it's rather wide -- possibly Eric's one indulgence -- and waits.

Eric stares at the bed too, and then self-consciously straightens the sheets. He doesn't look at Alan as he climbs in, but he does move over to make room.

Alan stands there awkwardly, staring at the vacated space. His instinct is to run, to leave and pretend this never happened, to be unfeeling and objective, to not bloody well _whimper_ in his sleep.

But he doesn't. He meets Eric's eyes finally who's looking at him rather hesitantly, closes the gap between himself and the bed, and then gingerly lies down. He's almost flush to the edge, and Eric is at the other edge.

They lie there awkwardly, unspeaking and caught in a tension so thick, it feels like being trapped in a bog. Alan's breath is shallow, as if he's trying not to make a sound or disturb the stillness. He's on his back, as stiff as a board, and when he tries readjust his position, the mattress makes a sharp squeak and he nearly falls off the edge.

"This is silly," Eric says suddenly.

"What?" Alan asks, turning his head to look at Eric anxiously.

"You're going to fall off," Eric says, rolls over onto his side to face Alan, impinging on the wide gap between them.

"I just..."

"There's nothing wrong with this," Eric says resolutely.

After a moment, Alan also slowly turns onto his side to face Eric and meet his eyes. Finally, the tension in his body slowly starts to dissipate as he studies Eric's easy expression, the longer part of his hair mussed from sleeping, his familiar smell and presence.

Eric is right. There's nothing wrong with this; nothing at all. But there's still something nagging in the back of Alan's mind, that there's a force at work here that isn't necessarily "wrong," but unacknowledged. Or perhaps he's incorrect. Perhaps he should stop thinking about it, at least for tonight, and just sleep.

He moves a few inches further onto the mattress so that he and Eric are closer, still facing each other, and bends his knee up lazily, sighing and closing his eyes.

"What were you dreaming about?" Eric asks softly after a few moments of silence.

"I honestly don't remember," Alan replies. "Presumably something unpleasant."

"Hm," Eric just says, and then closes his eyes too.

Alan is almost asleep when Eric adds, "Must have been _quite_ unpleasant."

"It's always something," Alan replies unexpectedly.

"What do you mean?" Eric asks quietly, shifting to place an arm under his head and listen. 

It suddenly feels like they're the only ones in the world, everything cloaked in nighttime, just their quiet voices that no one else can hear.

"Feeling things I shouldn't," Alan practically whispers. "It's a terrible habit."

"It's not so terrible," Eric says, not meeting Alan's eyes. "I don't know anyone else like that."

"It's just that I--" Alan says, his voice anxious again.

And then he starts and takes a staggered, sharp breath when Eric unexpectedly raises his hand and brushes his fingers across Alan's face, so quick that Alan doesn't even have time to react.

He blinks and recovers, breathes, "What are you--"

Eric just shifts closer, as if suddenly emboldened, and eagerly reaches out to touch again.

Alan bats his hand away and sits up, an outraged look on his face.

"I don't need your pity," he growls, surprising even himself with the uncharacteristically angry, defensive tone in his voice.

"Alan--"

"I know I'm not--"

" _Alan_."

Alan snaps his mouth shut. "I didn't mean to say that," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry."

Eric studies him quietly, and slowly Alan lies back down, biting his lip.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Eric finally replies in a hushed voice. "I shouldn't have..."

Alan just stares stonily down at the blankets, his fists clenched tensely. He's not angry exactly; just mortified, or maybe just angry at himself for showing such vulnerability. And then...for Eric to do _that_ , and look at him like _that_...

"Why did you do that?" he asks in a carefully controlled voice.

"It just felt...right," Eric replies immediately.

And Alan can't deny that he's correct. It felt right the moment Eric's fingertips were pressed against his skin -- a sensation eclipsed by pure and utter shock -- but an unmistakable tingling had run along every nerve, electrifying, as if he'd unconsciously been waiting for it.

Alan doesn't answer at first, and they just stare at each other.

"Yes," is all Alan finally says.

Eric raises an eyebrow, but moves a little closer and reaches his hand out again. Alan just takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, tipping his head a bit, and then there are careful fingers against his face, tracing his cheekbones down to the line of his jaw and then his neck.

It feels better than anything Alan has ever felt, and without meaning to, he lets out a soft moan.

His eyes fly open, but it appears he has no reason to be embarrassed as Eric pulls him closer, seizing Alan's hand and guiding it to press against his waist.

Alan is still too stunned to react, but he does let his hand rest there. Eric's skin is warm and smooth.

Eric puts his hand on top of Alan's and guides it up his side, lightly passing over his ribs and up to his shoulder, and then he lets go.

"If you want to," is all he says, and Alan doesn't pull away.

His touch is tentative and cautious, but he drags his fingers over Eric's shoulders, up his neck to his face, traces the shape of his eyebrows and cheekbones.

Eric stays perfectly still with his eyes shut as Alan touches him; they both sense the delicacy of the moment, as if it could break at any time.

When Alan's fingers ghost over his lips though, Eric opens his mouth slightly; Alan's breath catches as he feels a tongue against his fingertips, then teeth biting down gently, and a soft, " _Alan_."

Eric reaches out again slowly, giving Alan time to protest; when there's no jerk away, no angry words, Eric lets his hand sit on Alan's shoulder and smooth down his arm to his hip, then curve around to his back and trail lightly up his spine.

They're so close now, they're almost pressed completely against each other. Alan does jump slightly when Eric's hand goes up underneath the nightshirt, but then he relaxes.

Alan settles his hand at Eric's waist again, holding on, and then Eric draws back to look at him.

Their eyes meet, and neither one says anything as Eric unfastens the first button of the nightshirt. He gets to the second, and to the third, all the way down without a word being spoken, and then pushes it open and pulls Alan against him so that they're finally skin to skin.

Eric wraps his arm around Alan's waist under the shirt, stroking the small of his back lightly.

Alan pulls away to sit up, and for a moment, an anxious look comes over Eric's face; but Alan smiles at him a little as he shrugs the shirt off completely. He lies back down, and Eric immediately wraps his arms around Alan again and pulls him close.

Alan pushes his face against Eric's shoulder, and it's almost involuntary when he purses his lips. At first it's just a brush of mouth against skin -- nothing planned about it, not even a kiss -- but he feels Eric tense.

"Do that again," Eric says in a whisper, sounding hesitant and unlike his usual self.

This time, when Alan purses his lips, it _is_ a kiss, pressed against Eric's shoulder. Just a soft touch, almost too light to even qualify as a kiss, though it is one, and Eric arches his back and takes a sharp breath.

Alan pulls away quickly and also takes a deep breath to calm his nerves, trying to regain his composure.

Eric doesn't seem to be faring much better as he rolls onto his back, his breathing labored as he stares at the ceiling.

"It does feel right," Alan says abruptly.

Eric turns his head, and to Alan's surprise, he reaches out to stroke his fingers across Alan's forehead and push his hair to the side.

Alan, suddenly feeling rather bold, grabs Eric's hand; there's an expectant look, and then this time it's Eric that moans softly as Alan kisses the palm of his hand.

" _Alan_ ," Eric whispers again, sliding his fingers around to trace the fine curve of Alan's cheekbone. 

Alan makes a rather undignified sound of surprise as Eric pulls him forward. He finds himself on top now, and without thinking, arches his entire body against Eric and moans.

One of Eric's hands, strong and eager, no longer holding back, tangles in Alan's hair, pulling his head forward to press their lips together.

They kiss desperately, reservations gone, as Alan grasps Eric's shoulder tightly, moaning without restraint now as their tongues slide against each other.

Eric tastes faintly of liquor, and from this close, his hair smells vaguely spicy, whatever it is he puts through it to keep his mad hairstyle in order.

Alan pushes his hips forward instinctually and Eric meets him in the motion; they both stop abruptly, panting, and Eric presses a hand firmly against Alan's back. Alan just presses his face against Eric's neck, trying to catch his breath.

His body is so warm, so smooth, and Alan feels like he fits against it perfectly; it doesn't make him feel small, even though he is smaller than Eric (then again, nearly everyone is smaller than Eric), but as if he's found a place where he doesn't have to think or be ashamed of what he feels so deeply -- empathy, fear, sadness -- things that beings of his station shouldn't ever feel, lest they lose their minds.

No. Here, with Eric's ribs underneath of him, expanding and contracting as he breathes, arms wrapped securely around Alan's body, the scent of everything that defines Eric in his nose, Alan doesn't have to do anything _except_ feel, something that comes naturally to him. And for the first time, something that isn't painful.

"Alan," Eric says quietly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes?" Alan answers softly.

"How do you feel right now?"

Alan hesitates, as he feels Eric's fingers in his hair, and replies after a few moments in a quiet voice, "Happy."

After a few moments, Alan finds his way back onto the bed; he doesn't return to his former position though, instead turning to press against Eric and wrap an arm around him. Eric shifts and gives a contented sigh, turning his face to kiss the top of Alan's head.

"I understand," Eric says simply. He pulls Alan's hand up to kiss the back of it, and then lets their entwined fingers rest against his chest.

Alan closes his eyes, the familiar scent of Eric in his nose and the warm body pressed against his own, and falls asleep.

Neither one of them wakes again until dawn, and even then, they lie together in Eric’s bed with dim morning light filtering through the curtains, unspeaking for a few minutes of blissful silence with their hands still clutched together.

Finally, Eric stirs first. He turns to Alan, kisses his forehead tenderly, and then pulls away, saying brusquely in his normal voice, “It’s time to wake up, Humphries. We have reaps to do.”

Alan just smiles, no longer trying to hide it, as Eric rises and walks out of the bedroom to get ready for the day.

“Yes,” he says softly. He turns once Eric is gone to push his face against the sheets -- he doesn’t know when he’ll be here again, _if_ he’ll be here again...

He inhales deeply and curls into the spot that’s still warm from where Eric was lying, closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to leave the bed, doesn’t want to go face the world by himself again, doesn’t want be _lonely_. He’s spoiled now, after being given this one night of reprieve, of letting his mind rest and knowing what happiness feels like, knowing what _Eric_ feels like.

He keeps his eyes closed, feeling the cold edge of reality slowly creeping in like a killing frost. And then--

“Are you coming?” comes Eric’s voice from the doorway unexpectedly. Alan’s eyes flutter open in surprise to see Eric standing there, one hand on his hip, wearing only a towel.

Alan’s eyebrows raise, and he darts a furtive look down to the towel and then back up to Eric's face.

Eric clears his throat self-consciously and just says, as if in explanation, “We’re already running late.”

“Yes, I’m coming,” Alan replies shyly after a few moments of charged silence, climbing out of bed and following Eric toward the bathroom where he can hear the shower already running.

Regardless of any theoretical time saved, they almost miss the reap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Grell, you crazy, crazy goose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that regardless of the fact that Grell makes a cameo in nearly EVERYTHING I write for Kuro, I write from other characters' POVs 99% of the time. In this chapter, I wrote from Grell's POV, and holy crap I hope it turned okay. Seriously...I thought about it...and I think there's like, maybe four fics (? - if that) where it's Grell thinking.
> 
> DCR also made the point that throughout almost every fic I write, Grell is making **[this "bitch, please" face.](http://i45.tinypic.com/2hs95dd.png)**
> 
> Of this, I am proud.
> 
> And speaking of DCR, once again, THANK YOU FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY NEUROSES AND BETA READING 1,000 TIMES.

Before the year 1850, Grell Sutcliff was never one for tea. She always considered it a dull beverage, something sipped in the afternoon by boring, ugly people who had no sense of excitement or drama.

William T. Spears, whom Grell labeled a dullard well before she labeled him handsome, is fond of tea. In fact, _most_ of the things that Will actually does in real life are things that usually revile Grell: beverages like tea, priorities like paperwork, and attributes like self-control.

Will is also a cold, handsome man, which is generally something that makes Grell rather hot and bothered. Even when he’s kind -- which is not often -- Grell still can’t seem to get through that icy exterior, and part of the thrill is the desperate attempts to do so.

He is the only man that is not affected whatsoever by Grell -- either by exhibiting revulsion or attraction -- and Grell just can’t get enough of it. It’s something she feeds off, a delicious nectar that allows her to never grow bored.

She never expected to end up simply _liking_ tea. She also never knew that there was a rose-flavored tea, and with time, how it would taste when the leaves steeped for a long while.

It’s a strong, bitter taste that’s been infusing for decades, and in that time, Will has never once taken a sip from _her_ cup.

The chase is all well and good, but never has Grell ever found herself actually _yearning_ for something.

A bit of shopping always calms the nerves though, like a nice glass of champagne before a rowdy evening. And so Grell finds herself in a particularly lovely dress one afternoon, in a familiar shop in London, browsing a selection of fine china.

“Oh really, darling, do you expect a lady of _my_ standing to accept something so...plain?” Grell says with a smile despite the harshness of her words.

The shop girl looks absolutely mortified with the white cup she’s holding up for Grell’s inspection, and she blushes. Mm, a good blush is always so...attractive, such a reminder of the blood _right_ below the surface and--

“This one perhaps?” she asks, selecting a delicate cup and saucer decorated with intricately hand-painted gold designs.

Grell purses her lips, presses a finger topped by a perfectly manicured red nail against her mouth and laughs softly.

“Now my dear,” she says, as if the girl has just said the sky is green, “simple gold doesn’t suit. Not gold, not blue, not any other color except red. The cup mustn’t be _completely_ red -- it’s a gift after all -- but decorated with the most perfect of hand-painted blossoms.”

The girl swallows thickly, and then she stares openly at Grell's teeth with the wide, eager smile that forms.

“Have you anything...antique?”

“ _Antique?_ ”

“You know...classic. Preferably from around the year 1850 or so, with scalloped edges and small flowers. In fact...”

Grell slides a small piece of paper across the glass counter; it’s an advert from 1850 with a specific teacup illustrated.

“I shall give you until tomorrow to find me this piece,” she says, drawing the paper back. “I do hope you’ve a good memory, my darling, for you know, I should hate to decorate that revolting, _plain_ white cup myself that you’ve shown me. I prefer a bit of drama -- the blood of virgins sits quite nicely against the color white, like holly berries on snow. And how very innocent you look, my dear.”

The shade the sales girl has turned, at this point, is about on par with the shade of snow.

Suddenly, a look of realization comes over her face.

“Oh,” she says softly, “ _that_ style. Well...”

Grell knows very well that there's a dusty box in the back of the shop with the initials, "GS" written on it in very old ink. Still, it's always a laugh to terrify whatever unsuspecting girl is working as the clerk that year.

Grell also knows that there is a particular name on the "To Die" list that bothers William more than a toothache due to the fact that it‘s one of the enigmatic missing reaps that‘s never been solved. 

There is a certain percentage of uncompleted reaps (though miniscule) that can be attributed to shrinkage, or exceptional circumstances: the soul is somehow ruined, the name is slightly wrong, the involvement of a demon. There are any variety of reasons why this happens, but Will has never been able to figure this one out.

What very few people know, however -- living, dead or divine -- is that the owner of this particular shop is over 100 years old, and that his is the only one in London that stocks the particular teacup that Grell is in the process of acquiring. 

Grell clicks her fingernails on the glass case impatiently, like a clock ticking down to the shop girl's death if she's gone too long.

It would be much easier to keep the stockpile of teacups in her own flat, or somewhere on her own plane. But Will would undoubtedly find them, and so Grell keeps them here, in a musty storeroom, where she comes once every year to purchase one. In return, the whereabouts of the shopkeeper's soul remains a mystery, a name on Will's list of "unknowns."

Although Grell's entire reason for going to all of this trouble is to ensure that she can obtain the same teacup year after year, the fact that the whole affair has grown to be one of Will's chief irritations is almost a reason in and of itself to continue with the charade.

"Miss Sutcliff?"

"You have it then, dear?"

"Yes, ma'am. And as instructed, it’s free of charge."

Grell smiles dazzlingly, and the girl looks as if she's about to weep.

"Do give my regards to that darling man, Mr. Bainbridge. He must be at least 110 by now?"

The girl just gulps and wraps the cup gingerly (in fact, she would probably wrap the body of Christ himself with the same care), and squeaks in a high, breathless voice, “I shall."

Taking the delicate cargo in hand, Grell smiles more widely, pulls the red lace glove back onto her hand, and waves goodbye with a dainty flourish of fingers.

"Toodle-loo, darling girl. I'm sure I'll see you next year!" Grell says companionably, the bell ringing cheerfully as the door is pushed open. 

She stops in the doorway however, adding thoughtfully, “Unless, of course, there’s a terrible accident! In which case I’ll see you much sooner! But never mind then. Lovely day, isn‘t it?”

They always give their resignation after the owner of the dusty box marked “GS” visits.

****

Eric is hoping not to see anyone when he comes in late from his last reap of the day, as he has what he considers to be rather important plans tonight.

He thinks he’s gotten his wish, as he makes his way to his desk, until suddenly the pungent smell of nail varnish permeates the air. 

And there is the unexpected sight of Grell sitting nearby, legs crossed, sipping a cup of tea and seemingly engrossed in painting his nails that signature shade of blood red.

It becomes immediately apparent though, when Grell looks up and gives a rather unsettling, sweet smile, that he’s in a _mood._

Grell, with something weighing on his mind besides men and customized scythes, is more dangerous than if all the demons of hell escaped at once. 

Eric almost wants to turn right back around and just _leave_ \-- consequences be damned if he’s reprimanded by Spears for not checking over the reap reports for the day -- because the only time he’s ever felt vaguely afraid of anything is when Grell Sutcliff is in...a _mood_.

That smile, the way that he snares Eric with just his eyes, also means that he’s looking for a toy. Grell plays with living things (humans, reapers, even demons) the way a cat plays with a wounded bird; and no one in their right mind would ever doubt his ability to fatally strike.

"Darling," Grell says, his voice deceptively silky, "I've got a beauty for you in Personnel. She has my _personal_ stamp of approval and--"

"Not interested," Eric grunts as he walks past Grell to his own desk to rifle through some reports. 

" _Really?_ " Grell asks, swinging his legs off the desk with a rather coy smile on his face. "But she's your type -- pretty, impressionable, and not a single reservation in the bedroom of which to speak."

Eric just shakes his head; all he needs to do is sign the forms and stamp them complete to verify he's checked over Alan's work, and then he can _leave_ and meet up with--

"He's awfully young for you, darling," Grell croons in a velvety voice.

Eric turns sharply and scowls. Regardless of the fact that he possesses good instincts, usually ego wins out over self-preservation for Eric, even facing someone like Grell.

"Sutcliff, what are you on about?"

Grell just laughs and shakes his head, pointedly screwing the nail varnish cap onto the bottle and placing it into the side drawer of his desk.

He fans his outstretched fingers, waving them in the air to help the varnish dry.

"Well," Grell says, pursing his lips into an expression of mock reproval, "I only speak the truth, my dear. It's quite plain that you two are..."

"What?" Eric says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Close," Grell finishes tartly.

Eric just raises an eyebrow and goes back to what he was doing.

"Now then," Grell says, picking up where he left off, "as you know, I despise doing these bloody reports. If I introduce you to this pretty little thing, though obviously not as fetching as _I_ ," he says, flipping his hair, "shall I expect those last few days worth of reaps on William darling's desk by 7 a.m. on--"

"Not," Eric breathes, not looking up, " _interested_ , Sutcliff."

"And what _are_ you interested in, pray tell?"

"I've decided to become more discerning."

"Please come up with something better, dear."

"I've decided to become celibate."

"Keep going."

"I've decided," Eric says through gritted teeth, "to shag my mentee, break the rules, and never see another woman as long as his heart beats."

"Well, no need to _invent_ reasons, Eric," Grell laughs delicately. "After all, he was seeing quite a bit of one of my acquaintances the other night."

Eric freezes and looks at Grell; and so the final swipe of the claw finally falls on the struggling bird.

"You're lying," he blurts out, and then curses himself internally for giving in.

Grell's smile immediately curves into a predatory arc and he stands gracefully, brushing the hair out of his eyes and walking right up to perch on the edge of Eric's desk.

"Oh yes," he says innocently, "I'm afraid I lost track of the dear at that point. He seemed to have disappeared around a corner, and then--"

"Stop," Eric says, holding his hand up. "Just stop, Sutcliff."

"Oh, darling," Grell tsks, "I may be a woman of many tales, but I never lie."

Eric, although he's caught between wanting to throttle Grell (though he knows he'd probably lose) or simply walk away, knows this statement to be true. So he gives up the fight and plays dead.

"What acquaintance?"

"Why, the handsome gentleman I introduced him to, of course! I'd be shocked if they hadn't seen each other since."

"Keep your bird," Eric growls, turning away. "Do your own reports, Sutcliff."

Grell just laughs lightly. "Oh honestly, I never knew you to be the jealous type, Eric. It's quite refreshing, really. How romantic."

****

Alan is making dinner, and for the first time, Eric is hesitant about going.

He doesn't know what to make of Grell's statement. He still doesn't know why Alan was running through the snow, what happened wherever Grell took Alan, "his type" of entertainment. Eric doesn't like the way it makes him feel hollow.

Alan smiles at him when he opens the door, something nervous in his face.

They look at each other for a moment, and Alan slowly leans forward just as Eric takes a step into the flat. They collide awkwardly, and Eric shoves his hands into his pockets as Alan immediately moves away.

"Oh," he says, his face coloring. "Let me take your jacket."

"It's alright," Eric says, looking down. "I..."

Alan turns on his heel and walks rapidly back into the kitchen. "Well..." he says, his voice rather high pitched and tense, "...I hope I didn't burn the onions. Or the steaks for that matter. Or...well, you'll see I suppose."

Eric raises an eyebrow that Alan doesn't see, and follows him.

"You see," Alan says, busily poking at the steaks on the stove, "I...wasn't sure...whether you liked them well done or uh...medium or..."

Alan knows very well that Eric likes his steak rare.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Eric says simply.

Eric is an hour late; he's late because he stood outside Alan's door debating about what to say, what to do.

The day had been completely normal. They'd gone on their reaps, finished out the list, and then Alan had rather shyly asked Eric if he wanted to have dinner.

Having dinner with Alan is not unprecedented. In fact, _not_ having dinner with Alan would be unprecedented. _Not_ having dinner with Alan would have been stranger than anything else.

Having dinner _at_ Alan's flat, on the other hand, is new. Alan is a terrible cook, with a terrible kitchen and poor stove and hardly any supplies of which to speak. Eric likes to cook (this is not a widely know fact), and he particularly likes cooking for Alan and--

He shuts his thoughts out abruptly. 

"It's fine," Alan says, and again, his smile a little too quick.

The steak is beyond well done, but Eric tries to cut it with his knife...a butter knife.

"Alan," he says, as Alan is desperately trying to cut through his own blackened steak.

"I'm sorry," Alan whispers, staring down.

Eric's thoughts vanish and he looks at Alan with new concern.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I..."

"What is it?"

"Why are we acting this way?" Alan whispers in an anxious voice, looking up at Eric.

Eric sighs. He wants to stand up, go to Alan and tell him everything is fine, that they're just being silly, that it's just typical nerves after a first night together.

He wants to tell him how good it felt, how much he cares.

But instead, he just sits and stares at the table blankly.

"I don't know," he replies. And since it seems like there's nothing else to say now, he finally asks, "What were you doing...that night?"

Alan looks up in surprise, and then he frowns.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks, and Eric can tell his hands are clenched together under the table. Apparently, he's hit a sore spot.

"Grell said something," he says, deciding to be honest. "He said...that you...and one of his 'acquaintances'..."

"You think I shagged him?" Alan's voice is absolutely flat and uninflected.

" _No_ ," Eric retorts, scowling.

"Then why are you asking?" Alan replies.

"I..."

"I know the steaks are burnt," Alan suddenly says. "It's fine. I won't be offended if you go."

"I don't want--"

"Go," Alan says.

"No," Eric replies.

"What?"

"I said _no_ , Humphries."

"Why would you want to stay?" Alan asks, and his eyes lock with Eric's.

His expression is frightened and angry, and _ohsodit--_

Eric's stands abruptly, takes two broad steps toward Alan, and settles a hand on his shoulder. Alan just stares at the table until Eric drops down to crouch next to him, waiting.

Finally he turns to look at Eric, and his face is anxious.

"I didn't shag him," he whispers, dropping his eyes again, though he doesn't turn his face away.

"Never mind that now," Eric says resolutely, but his voice is gentle. "I didn't ask that, did I?"

Alan nods slowly in affirmation, but then he does turn his face away. Eric catches his chin to stop him and leans forward to kiss him gently on the mouth.

Alan's eyes widen, and then he sighs heavily, as if letting out all the tension he's been holding in.

"I just want to know what happened," Eric says softly, "why you were running."

Alan nods and swallows thickly.

"Very well," he replies, his voice hoarse. 

When he hesitates, Eric runs his fingers over Alan's cheek and studies his face. He's delicate in a strange way, and yet not delicate at all; his features are fine, expressive and cunning.

Alan has aroused Eric's curiosity since the day they met. He's been a strange mix of emotions from the beginning: reserved yet emotional, exceptionally talented yet indecisive, logical yet empathetic. But most of all, conflicted.

Eric has also found himself, whether he'd admit it or not before now, studying those features more and more.

"Go on then," Eric says, dropping his hand. It's almost gruff; but instead of shying away, Alan smiles faintly at the familiar tone of voice.

"I went there with Grell," Alan starts, and Eric already hears the tears in his voice. "We were among only humans, all men, all searching for something, and I--"

His breath catches, and Eric rubs his fingers over the back of Alan's neck soothingly.

"Come on," he says gently, guiding Alan to stand up. "Let's go lie down."

Alan's face reddens, but he nods. He's trying so hard not to weep; Eric knows Alan hates it when he cries, but still, it happens every now and again.

They go into Alan's bedroom and Eric shrugs his jacket off. Alan gets on the bed without argument, and Eric lies down next to him; they don't touch, but Alan at least looks a bit more relaxed.

Eric turns onto his side, much in the way he was a few nights before, to listen.

"And I..." Alan whispers, his voice carefully level, starting as if he never stopped, "got a bit pissed."

Eric nods, but then says softly, "You don't have to tell me if you really don't want to."

"That's not it," Alan whispers.

Eric reaches out to run his fingers over Alan's cheek.

"You can always come to me with anything," he says fervently. " _Anything_ , Alan."

Then, the tears do fall, and he pulls Alan against him.

"What happened?" Eric asks again.

"It wasn't anything so terrible," Alan breathes against Eric's chest where he's pressed his face.

"Sometimes I think I'm not _meant_ for this profession," he says, "so I started to think that maybe I was meant to be human."

Eric doesn't say anything, and when Alan draws back to look at him, searching for disapproval, he just nods for him to continue.

"But...I'm not," Alan whispers. "He kissed me, and touched me, and then...all I could think of..."

"Yes?" Eric asks, stroking Alan's hair.

Part of him swells with pain; it's silly and petty. He's always encouraged Alan to meet someone, to have a shag, to have some fun; and Eric has historically despised jealousy as a repugnant, ridiculous sentiment.

But when it comes down to it, _really_ becomes a reality, the idea of someone else touching Alan makes his stomach churn.

"All I could think of...was you," Alan exhales, his voice self-conscious, as if he thinks Eric is going to deride him.

"Why me?" Eric asks softly.

"I wanted you to laugh with me," Alan says, his voice wavering again. "I wanted you there."

Eric is clutching Alan so tightly now, he's afraid he's hurting him.

"I was alone," Alan shudders.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Eric whispers.

Alan weeps freely now. He cries into Eric's shoulder, sobs that wrack his entire body, as if releasing a burden he's been holding onto for a long time.

He doesn't apologize, doesn't try to stop, and Eric feels as if he finally understands.

"You're not alone," Eric says softly.

Alan shakes his head, and he makes an embittered, self-depreciating sound. But before he can speak, Eric kisses his forehead and shushes him.

"Don't argue with me, Humphries," he says softly. 

Alan laughs a little, breaking through his tears, and Eric smiles faintly.

"I always thought," Alan whispers, "that you only kept me as a mentor because you had no other choice."

Eric can feel his own eyes burning now, and he blinks hard.

"Of course not," he replies. "You're bloody brilliant, you sod."

Alan laughs again weakly, and Eric feels something tighten in his chest as he feels Alan's cheek rub against his own.

"Don't leave me," Eric says suddenly. "Don't say you're not cut out for this profession."

Alan draws back abruptly to stare at Eric, and Eric shakes his head.

"I can't do it without you," he adds quietly, and now it's Alan who reaches out to touch Eric's face.

"Alright," he says quietly, nodding. "I think...we finally understand each other." Alan sighs suddenly, blinking heavily. It's been a long day, and even longer evening.

"Let's go to sleep," Eric says softly.

Alan nods again, a slight blush on his face; nevertheless, he sheds his clothes, as does Eric.

They lie down together in the bed. The lights are turned out, the sheets pulled up, and Eric wraps his arms around Alan tightly.

His skin is so smooth, his body warm and alive, and Eric feels like everything is wonderful and bright. 

"Alan," he says softly.

"Yes?" Alan replies sleepily, twining his fingers with Eric's.

"I'll make the steaks next time."

Alan laughs softly, and kisses Eric's hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The repair of a broken teacup; the blooming of tea leaves; the beauty of completion. Or: Alan Humphries gets to know his mentor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "chapter" is more of a short conclusion, but you get the idea. And it's finally done!

When Alan walks into the staff kitchen, the last thing he's expecting to see is William T. Spears there by himself, fumbling around and making tea. 

The kettle is already on, halfway to a boil as William goes for a cup. Alan stops halfway through the doorway as his superior opens the cupboard, and before he can notice Alan's presence, his attention is completely riveted by something else.

There are absolutely no mugs left in the cupboard, no dishes at all; instead, perfectly centered, is a very familiar looking teacup.

As Alan's eyes widen, William lets out an exasperated sigh. He gingerly sets it on the counter in front of him, and then just stares at it. 

He shuts the cupboard and adjusts his glasses, and then continues to stare; Alan also stares, and then notices something _inside_ the cup.

He gets an even better view when William plucks it out and holds the item between two fingers, some mixture of familiarity and disdain.

It's a lock of very red hair bound together with a ribbon. William frowns at it, turns his gaze back to the cup, and frowns even more.

Alan cringes as he finally shuts the door soundly behind him, and William turns suddenly.

"Humphries," he barks, raising an eyebrow, "honestly, you must announce yourself _somehow_ to your seniors, if they don't immediately notice your presence."

Alan folds his hands behind his back contritely and nods. "I apologize."

William just looks at him, and then nods as if in approval. 

"Do you require any... teacups?" he asks, holding out the teacup that is identical to the one in Eric's flat, though undoubtedly not the same one.

"I..."

Alan attempts to deduce the most appropriate answer, until he notices a few ends of red hair are sticking out of William's pocket.

"Yes," he says resolutely, accepting the cup, "thank you, senior."

\-----

When Eric walks into his flat that evening, he finds something unexpected.

There in the middle of the table -- obviously placed to draw his attention -- is a rather familiar looking teacup. It's filled with dirt and a few newly sprouted flowers, barely open, yet already a vivid purple.

Eric smiles, picks up the cup carefully, and places it on the window sill to grow in the sunlight.


End file.
